Tele
by I've Been a Labrat
Summary: Charles is dying. He pleads for help from a long passed White Queen, praying he has a chance to remain in this world and lead his students. One can only hope.


_I'm a tad concerned about Emma Frost's characterization, though I hope it sounds like her. In any case, this takes place in 1995 to 1997. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

><p>"Hello, Miss Frost."<p>

"What do you want?"

Charles smiled, in what he hoped was an olive branch. Judging by Emma's still flat expression, it wasn't. "I come with an offer for an alliance."

"Oh, honey, you can't afford me."

"Who said I was paying?"

Emma snorted. "I suppose, with balls like that, I'm intrigued."

"Wonderful." He lead the way to the lounge in his mind on the astral plane. "Hope you don't mind, I have a few guests joining us."

"Joy." She reluctantly followed, feigning disinterest even as she noticed two nearly identical Charles forms sitting in the lounge already. "Triplets?" She asked.

"No, thank God. This is… Onslaught." Charles gestured to the hobo-looking one, who rolled his eyes and brought a beer bottle to his lips for a swig. "And this is Francis." The clean shaven, baby-faced Charles, who Emma had first encountered in the sixties, waved cheerily before, by contrast, sipping from a martini glass.

Onslaught had a flannel shirt, a dirty t-shirt underneath, jeans, and boots. His face was woolly and his hair hung in his face, long and scraggly. His legs were parted and he sat slumped on the couch. He had no class, clearly.

Francis was in a neat grey suit, vest, and tie. His posture was relaxed, but his legs were crossed and he held his glass almost daintily, as one was taught when growing up in a rich household, as Charles Xavier had. His hair was combed and slicked back with pomade. He had all the class Onslaught lacked.

Then, there was Charles himself, the ego amid the id and superego. His hair was cut, but also hanging on his forehead, while his beard remained neatly trimmed. He was more relaxed in a shirt and cardigan, though there were dark circles under his eyes despite it being the astral plane, where one could look how they wanted. His feet were socked and slippered, rather than in shoes. His pants were that of plaid pajamas, and he only took up a cup of tea from behind the bar, rather than any alcohol. He, however, was a gracious host and handed Emma a glass of chardonnay.

"Make yourself comfortable, this could take a while."

"Xavier, I'm surprised at your disheveled appearance. I could have sworn you were enough of a peacock to always pride yourself on appearances."

The younger telepath smiled tiredly, and she noticed a tremor in his body as he slowly sank down onto a couch, opposite from his id and superego, next to Emma. "I'm not at peak health."

She casually took a sip of her drink, lightly swirling it in her glass. "A terminal illness?"

He nodded, busying himself with sipping his tea. So he was afraid to face it.

"Hm…" Emma examined her nails as she thought. "ALS? Cancer? Muscular dystrophy?"

"Leukemia," Onslaught snapped, narrowing his eyes at her. "Do you have to badger him so goddamned much?"

Charles suddenly let out a sob, the tea disappearing from existence as he buried his face in his hands. Emma let him weep, tears running down his face in rivers as he shook with grief.

Creating a tissue box into her hand, she passed it to Charles, allowing him time to piece himself back together. "You crying like a child certainly won't allow for any problem solving."

He weakly nodded, finishing drying his face. "I know," he said softly.

"Why do you need me?" She knew very well why. It was better to force him to say it, though. It'd make it easier for him to accept the fact he was fucking terrified to die and he had come begging for her to help him avoid it.

"Perhaps we should have this conversation some other-" Francis began, but was cut off by a shushing noise from Charles.

"I…" He cleared his throat, leaning back against the cushions and swallowing. "I don't want to die. Your mind, your essence, still exists despite your physical body having expired."

"Such purple prose. You should have become a poet."

"I need you to teach me how."

The blonde wrinkled her nose. "Teach you how to live in purgatory and be bored for all eternity?"

Charles grabbed her arm, though his grip was loose and spoke of how weak his body and mind already were. "Please," he pleaded, voice breaking on the one word.

She narrowed her eyes, peering into his own blue ones, though the color had faded with the illness taking its toll on his body. Obviously, desperation was there. "Your son. He needs you," Emma stated.

Charles nodded, face stricken and lips unable to bring forth words.

"Fine. But my price isn't cheap. You either pay me, or you suffer in silence."

"I'll do anything."

She patted his hand patronizingly. "I wouldn't say that, were I you."

* * *

><p>"Who is Max?"<p>

It was the third week they'd met. Though it could have easily turned deadly for him, Charles had done as Emma instructed and injected himself with a drug to slow his heart rate and lower his body temperature enough to make himself seem dead. The entire mansion of people he lived amongst had panicked, of course, thinking their dearest professor had finally succumbed to the cells ravaging his bloodstream, and through it, his body.

He'd done fine, staying in the astral plane. The first time, he'd been shaking and his form flickered heavily, but he remained focused. His breathing was heavy, though, and he'd wrapped his arms around himself as he fought the mounting nausea and pain that came with such strain.

The second time, he'd improved remarkably, since he'd figured out how to not only maintain contact, but to transfer himself onto the astral plane entirely. He was still a little nauseated and shaky, but he'd done better.

Now, he was fine, if not a little drowsy as he sipped tea on the couch.

"Xavier, stay awake." Emma snapped her fingers in front of him, and his eyes flashed open again. "Who is Max?"

"Stop going through my head," he mumbled halfheartedly.

"That was my price, if you recall."

"Right," Charles mumbled, shifting himself and trying to sit up straight to keep himself more alert and awake.

"Ahem," Emma prodded.

Shaking his head, the younger telepath sighed. "Erik."

"I should have gathered as much, but I thought I'd leave the revelation up to you." She dragged a file along one nail. "Cute kid. Shame he had to grow into a bastard."

"Pot, kettle." Charles crossed his arms, leaning his head back, only to receive a smack on the back of his head from Emma. "Ow."

"Stay awake, and I won't need to hit you."

"You'd hit me regardless."

"True."

Summoning a clock to appear in front of her, she checked the time. "Ten more minutes, then you need to wake up to a shot of adrenaline to your system in the physical world, let your rugrats ensure you're fine, then you can sleep all you want."

Charles sighed quietly. "Max is a good man, despite all he's done in the past. He's raised Lorna on his own, he risked his own life to save Peter, and… he's done nothing lately but care for me while I've been so sick."

Emma feigned a yawn. "Yes, how fascinating to hear Magneto is somehow altruistic."

"Could you not be a bitch?" Charles snapped, though his voice didn't have much viciousness behind it.

The elder telepath laughed. "It's my purpose in life."

"I'm sorry," Charles said quietly, tracing patterns on his dark blue robe. "Onslaught gets the better of me sometimes. I didn't mean that."

"You should let him run the place more often. I like him better than you."

She ignored the small smile he cast her. No need to get attached to Xavier. He was an annoying piss ant who would soon leave her alone. He was only happy to see her because he hadn't bedded a woman since his wife kicked the bucket in '86. Psh. Man-whore.

* * *

><p>The scream of bloody murder clued her in. Hmph. Seemed as though the mutant menagerie had finally caught on to the fact Charles's consciousness slipped out every time he nearly flatlined.<p>

She found him writhing on the white paneled ground, body and mind trapped in the violent throes of a grand mal seizure. He must have screamed in a panicked call for help before he completely lost his faculties.

Crouching next to him, she pressed a hand to his neck to feel his pulse. It vacillated between erratic and sluggish. His form glitched like a static-trapped computer, speaking to his struggle to claw his way out of the physical world into the astral plane.

He wasn't ready to transfer himself to the astral plane and then into a new physical body. His "X-Men" would effectively ruin their chances of ever having him back. Surely, they weren't stupid enough to see they were killing him more than saving him.

Or maybe not. Charles's teeth chattered, eyes squeezed shut as his breath came in pants. Good lord. She thought his students lived at a school.

Closing her eyes, she sank into Charles's skull in the physical world, where he was thrashing on a medical table while several people held him down. Magneto. Beast. Banshee. Psylocke. Wolverine.

She turned, seeing a man appear behind her. Emma waved sardonically. "Sugar, you might want to back off."

The man, black haired with heterochromatic eyes, furrowed his brow. "Who are you? What are you doing to the Professor?"

Sighing, she approached and stopped in front of him. "He's been receiving lessons from me at Telepath School. It's not for you," she added. "Get out. Now."

Jason, that was his name, narrowed his eyes as his nostrils flared. "What have you done to him? _You_ need to get out of his mind!"

Emma rolled her eyes, then her hand crystallized into glittering diamonds. Swinging her fist, it collided with Jason's face. His jaw would physically ache, though it wouldn't actually be broken. Still, it made him cry out in agony as his form disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Charles, in both mind and body, abruptly sagged in relief as the seizure disappeared as quickly as it had begun. Opening her eyes again, she found Charles smiling up at her from the floor of the astral plane. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You owe me."

He chuckled, quiet and exhausted. "That's alright."

* * *

><p>His hair had finally succumbed to the chemotherapy, all of it releasing its hold on Charles's scalp and falling out around the house.<p>

He was visibly distraught as he stared into the mirror. "What am I going to do?"

"Be one of those peons wearing a toupee?"

"You're not helping."

"I'm not here to be your mommy and kiss your cuts and scrapes away."

Charles sighed and turned away from the reflective glass. "My mother never did that anyway."

"Must have been a lovely woman."

"Oh, she was the very best ever," he replied sarcastically, shivering. "I'm freezing."

They ended up on the couch again, a steaming mug of tea between Charles's hands while he sat snugly wrapped in two blankets with a ski cap on his bare head.

"You look like a chipmunk," Emma informed him, making reference to the fact that, yes, his cheeks were rounder and fatter. The younger telepath was mortified by it, quite frankly.

"Thank you so much," Charles muttered irritably, swallowing a drink of the warm liquid.

Crossing her legs, Emma took a drink of red wine. "Your son. Care to elaborate?"

"Are you that bored?" He asked.

"Indeed I am. Your mind was a disappointment."

There was that smile again. "His name is David. Gabrielle… made my name his middle name. His eyes have complete blue and green heterochromia. His hair is black, but has blue running through it."

"Is this going to get interesting anytime soon?"

Charles ignored her as he went on, his eyes suddenly alight with love and joy as he spoke so fondly of his child. "He's just recently graduated school. He was so afraid to walk up and across the stage, but I think me being the one to hand him his diploma made him feel more confident." He chuckled a little. "It took all my restraint not to outright hug him and tell him for about an hour how proud I was."

"Guilty about something?"

He shrugged a little, looking away. "I… was…" Charles swallowed. "I was almost in too much pain to hold the ceremony myself." He grimaced. "I can't do it this year. Hank is doing it for me."

Emma took a slow drink. "What's wrong with David?"

The volatility, the unexpected, immediate arrival of rage, certainly would have made her flinch, were she a lesser woman. Charles's face twisted with the level of his lividity, and he hissed dangerously as he stood up, all sign of weakness vanishing as though it had never been.

"Do _not __**ever**_," he snarled, "say something is _wrong_ with my son." Charles leaned over her, baring his teeth as the blue in his eyes grew hotter by the second. "Do I make myself _clear_?"

"Down boy," Emma replied nonchalantly. "He's autistic, right? I believe one of my long ago cousins had that." She sipped her wine. "At least your spawn isn't locked in a sanitarium."

The fight left Charles as he visibly deflated, sinking back to the couch and sighing as he rubbed his forehead. "My mother put me in one. I'd never allow anyone to do that to David."

She patted his shoulder, and pretended she didn't feel a slight twinge of sympathy. "There, there. I'm sure mommy dearest thought her son was merely possessed by Satan because he could hear voices in his head."

He couldn't gather the energy to respond.

* * *

><p>Ah. His end had come. He sat alone on a random boulder in the middle of endless white, rubbing his arm as he blinked away the burning tears.<p>

"Having fun so far?"

When he turned his face up to her, he was far more agonized than she thought. Again, she pretended she had no sympathy. "I wasn't ready."

Emma waved him off. "You say that, but you'll be glad to get away from those morons for a while."

Charles sobbed and pressed his hands to his mouth, hiccuping despite it as he let himself collapse. "I miss David. And Ororo. And Raven. And Max and Hank and Marion and Cecilia and Sean and LornaandTerryKurtBetsyJasonScottLoganNathan-"

They both went silent as Emma shocked them by wrapping her arms around him. "You want to go back already?"

He nodded, a little dazed by the fact she was trying to comfort him.

Emma sighed. "Fine. Let's go scout out a new shell for you to inhabit. I think you'd look nice as a Samoan. Or a black man."

Charles gave her a disbelieving stare as she pulled him to his feet. "I… good God."

The blonde smirked. "Racism. It shocks you every time, I love it."

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

* * *

><p>He stood awkwardly before her, hands in his pockets as he glanced between her and the ground. "Um… well… I suppose this is farewell."<p>

Emma picked at her nails. "Call me if you want to have imaginary lunch."

Charles chuckled a little. "I'd like that."

"Have fun with your futile vision and school of brats."

"I'll miss you too," he replied, translating Emma's bid goodbye. Giving one last smile, he turned, leaping across the chasm devoid of light into the empty mind of a comatose patient.

* * *

><p>He felt guilty knocking out the hospital staff, but he couldn't afford to be seen as waking up in this new body. Sitting up slowly, he stretched, cracking his neck and wincing. At least the boy hadn't been comatose for long, which helped him avoid muscle atrophy.<p>

Creeping out of the bed, he checked to ensure the gown he wore was not backless, and sighed in relief to find it was closed. He'd already instructed the nurse and doctor to check his vitals before detaching him from the machines and various drips. He should be fine.

And if he wasn't, then he might be screwed. The boy's mutation and mind were connected, and since that mind was currently asleep deep within his physical brain, while Charles had taken the reigns, he had no access to the power to manipulate time. Thus, no ability to fix anything wrong with his body by changing it to a future or past fit condition.

It gave him pause, though it was only mental, as he had to quickly make his escape through the hospital doors. Everyone was oblivious to his presence as he ran, grimacing as he scraped his bare feet on the asphalt, down the sidewalk. He was strapped for cash, and would be hard pressed to find a cab driver willing to take him even a foot forward without any money.

Unfortunately, that meant he would have to do a quick mind sweep, poke a stick at the shatterpoint in a cabbie's brain, and convince him to drive Charles all the way out of Salem Center to the mansion school of weirdos. Sighing, he snatched up control of a driver's mind and made him pull over for Charles to climb in.

"Aren't you a little young to be in a cab by yourself?"

"No, I'm not." Putting two fingers to his temple in an old gesture he hadn't used in years, Charles guided the man away from the curb and on his way out of town.

Sitting back, he gazed out the window and watched the scenery change from the town he'd known so well all these years, and transform into miles of trees. He swallowed as the taxi stopped at the gates of the mansion, the road now paved in brick instead of gravel.

Dear God, he wasn't ready for this.

They had already had his funeral, as it'd taken too long for him to get past his moral guilt over taking control of someone else's body, perhaps permanently. On top of that, he had to find just the right body he could live with.

The only one he could live with, however, was that of the boy he called his nephew. The boy he hadn't expected Hank to ever father in his life, awkward as the younger man always was. Yet, Nathan did, indeed, exist. He knew it would cause Marion and Hank grief to see their son, but not have it really be him. He hoped, at least, he could bring them some solace by giving them access to Nathan's mind, which remained in quiet slumber.

Pressing in the access code on the keypad, the gates slowly opened, leaving Charles standing helplessly at the mercy of the people up the drive. They would be livid. They would think he'd tried to lie and cause them grief by pretending to die, only to return later. They would be disbelieving it was really him.

Charles prayed to God they would, someday, perhaps be happy he was able to lead the school again. He'd left the place, and the X-Men, in perfectly capable hands, but they would likely be more relieved to have him lead once more, until they gained enough confidence to do so themselves.

The walk up the drive was silent and slow, Charles taking his time as he mulled over what he would say. How he could explain to his friends, his family, his students, that this wasn't a cruel dream and he really was here. He had a feeling that "hey, by the way, I'm alive after all haha funny story etc. etc," wouldn't go over well.

He had to mask his presence from the students on the front lawn as he walked past. They would see Nathan McCoy in a hospital gown, run for the teachers, and then it would cause a riot. Not exactly the introduction he wanted to make. But who could he approach first? Hank and Marion were immediately marked off the list, as was David. Max came to mind. As did Ororo and Scott. Lorna was also a possibility, though he decided against it after all, as she might panic or not believe it.

Scott wasn't exactly a leader, however. He was meek, so changed after they lost Alex. He wouldn't be able to handle it well.

That left Ororo and Max.

_Max?_ Charles stopped in the hallway, pressing himself against the wall. It was easier to make himself invisible when he wasn't at risk of having someone run into him.

He hadn't quite expected his old friend to spit coffee and subsequently choke on the hot drink he'd been in the midst of swallowing. The metal bender braced himself on the couch and pounded a fist against his chest to ease his coughing.

_Max?_ He tried again, hoping the older man would be alright this time.

No, apparently not. He nearly fell over as his head snapped up, eyes wide as he stared unseeingly at the wall. … _Charles?_

The telepath couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, letting himself bask in Max's mind for a moment as he breathed in relief. _It's me, old friend. I thought you might be the best one to approach, at first._

Max suddenly sighed and shook his head, a stray thought passing through his head. _I've lost my mind._

_Oh, dear._ He'd been afraid of that happening. Taking a slow, steadying breath, he narrowed his eyes and concentrated, reaching out to halt Max in his tracks as he turned away to find a rag to press to the coffee-soaked chair. Max recoiled from the terrifying cage he was locked up in, and his jaw dropped when his arm lifted by some unknown force, calling the clock on the mantle to his hand without Max desiring it.

_Charles._

_Max._ Opening the door, he allowed his friend control of his own body again, shutting the wooden door behind him before revealing his physical presence to Max. Holding up his hands in defense, he began talking quickly, before Max could interrupt. "You haven't lost your mind. I can go get Ororo and Hank and the others to prove to all of you this isn't your imaginations. I wasn't able to save my own body from death, but my mind was preserved on the astral plane until I could find a new… host," he grimaced at the word, not wanting to describe Nathan that way, "and return here."

Max blinked, then walked forward, one step at a time, until he was looking directly down at Charles. "I have to be sure," he murmured. "Call the others."

Nodding once in compliance, he closed his eyes as he quickly summoned the others down to the study, compelling them despite their disbelief and protests. "How's David?"

"Catatonic."

"God," he breathed, swallowing and shutting his eyes again. "I'm so sorry for all this."

"We'll have it out later."

"Right." Charles walked around the large desk, running a hand along the dark wood. Max had been haunting his old office. Sighing, he sank into the chair, frowning as his feet didn't touch the ground. He'd have to adjust to that, he supposed.

The words, the speech he'd prepared, died on his lips as the door opened to reveal the shell shocked faces of his old family. He wasn't ready to die. He wasn't ready to live again.

* * *

><p>"I miss the sixties."<p>

"The early years were nice, though that didn't last long," Max replied as he moved a knight on the checkered board.

Charles curled up in the large chair, his body still small enough to do so as he sipped his tea. It had been a full year since he'd returned from death, and it hadn't grown much easier.

His headstone had been gladly ripped out, and his body had been thankfully preserved, now in a stasis chamber. It was now just a matter of reanimating that body, ridding it of the cancerous cells in his bloodstream, and transferring his consciousness into his old brain.

Vile as it sounded, it was the best solution, as it meant he could give Hank and Marion their son back, since he'd tirelessly worked to bring Nathan out of his coma. It had been self-imposed, brought on by extreme distress due to his mutation.

"How is David?" Max inquired.

"He's wonderful," Charles replied, relaxed now his son had recovered from his grief and worked past his time of clinging to Charles for fear he'd disappear again. Once David had reassured himself that wasn't going to happen, he'd been able to slowly spend time on his own again, and had defeated his separation anxiety with a courage Charles was too proud of to express in words.

"Weapon X is now permanently dismantled."

Charles admittedly hadn't been able to keep close tabs on his X-Men. They'd been a little angry, felt betrayed that he had left, made them grieve, only to return fully intact. Thus, he'd given them a wide berth out of respect, and spent his time elsewhere. Max had fully taken over leading the X-Men from the mansion, unable to summon the energy to return to the field, so caught up as he was in sorrow over the gaping loss of his oldest friend.

"Good. Stryker?"

"Whereabouts unknown. I doubt he'll crawl out of the woodwork again, however." Taking a sip of scotch, Max leaned back into his chair. He still remained regal and deserving of all respect despite his evident age. Clad in the old familiarity of his turtleneck and khaki ensemble, the salt and pepper hair and tired lines on his face were really all that physically conveyed a difference of appearance from when he was a young man.

His mind, though, was vast in its wisdom and experience. Max had been too old for his years since he was nine, childhood and youth stolen from him and unable to ever be regained. He'd had his share of mistakes and tragedies, far more bad cards than he should have been dealt. Learning to play with the hand he had, Max had fought and bullied his way through life, scared to death of allowing himself to love and care for other people again. Lorna had been what finally shook him out of that mindset. A daughter he had to raise on his own really put things into a final perspective for him. So he'd rejoined Charles at his school, and had settled into a peaceful, quiet life with a few ups and downs. He was restless, and would leave sometimes, but he would always return to his old friend and family.

Regardless of what others thought, their lenses colored with negative encounters, Max was a good man.

Perhaps his own view may be rose tinted and colored by the instant acceptance of Charles back into the fold of things. Charles couldn't be bothered to say he might be biased. He'd missed his old friend, be his name Erik or Max or Magnus. He could hope they would accomplish so much more in the coming years, and be there to see at least some of their visions come true.


End file.
